Chapter Five #2
It was diabolically fiendish of Mrs. Dove-Lyon to provide ale to aid the process—an endless flowing jug, said her master of ceremonies.
Jake, who had eaten a bird pepper for a bet once when he and his master had been in Spain, figured some of the contestants would be falling-down drunk before they completed the task.
Perhaps the Black Widow of Whitehall, as they called her, had designed the bet for the captain. Jake wouldn’t put it past the lady to have found out that Captain Harraway had a cast iron stomach and that he enjoyed spicy food too hot for others to handle .
The rules this time were a bit different, too.
Each of the contestants had paid a substantial sum to enter the contest, and a huge crowd were betting ridiculous sums on the outcome—a portion of which would stay with the house as fee.
But in addition, Captain Harraway and the other contestants had all signed to say they would pay the bride fee if they won.
Skippy assured Jake that this was unusual. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was known for taking large sums of money from ladies who had had difficulty finding a man to court them thanks to something about their appearance, character, reputation, family, background, age, or some other characteristic.
For the prospective husband to pay the matchmaker fee was almost unknown, but in this case, each had been required to put up fifty percent of the fee, most of which would be refunded if they lost. The winner would meet the lady before the matter was finalized, and both parties would have right of refusal.
If they went ahead, the groom must pay the other fifty percent.
If the groom defaulted, he lost his deposit and would also lose the right to play at the Lyon’s Den.
If the bride defaulted, the groom would still lose his deposit.
As always in gambling dens, whoever lost or won, the house would profit.
The captain was nearly halfway through his bowl. Two of the other contestants had retired from the lists, but of those who remained, three were neck and neck—or, more appropriately, bite and bite—with Jake’s master.
Adding to the drama of the occasion, Waterford was one of the other contestants, though few in the room knew the two men were at loggerheads and why.
Ah. Another man had dropped out. The captain downed half of his ale and the glass was quickly filled by one of the footmen who were circulating with jugs. The captain grabbed another mouthful of bits and began chewing.
All the remaining contestants were showing signs of the heat—they were flushed, sweating, and having frequent recourse to their handkerchiefs.
A fourth man signaled his intention to quit the field, and then a fifth.
Money was changing hands as those who’d made private bets involving the dropouts settled their accounts.
What was Waterford doing? His hand scooped bird pepper morsels from his bowl then swung in a circle to put them into his mouth.
The viewing was uncertain, thanks to smoke from candles and cigarettes, and the shadows cast by the crowd.
But Jake could swear that the hand was emptier when it reached Waterford’s mouth than when it lifted from the bowl.
There, he’d done it again, swinging his hand over his neighbor’s bowl. Was he dropping bits for Captain Harraway to eat, thus helping himself and hindering his foe?
Jake leaned forward in the hopes of seeing more clearly.
Meanwhile, an employee of the Lyon’s Den circulated through the crowd with the official betting book, as people argued the merits of the remaining five contestants.
The two favorites had been stationed in India and were fond of curries.
They were in the lead, along with Captain Harraway.
A couple of men observed to one another that the captain was less flushed, and sweating less, than the others, and increased their bets on him.
Two of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s footmen flanked Waterford, and one of them tapped the man on his shoulder. Oh, good. He was being taken away. Someone else must have noticed his trick with the bird peppers.
The man who was trailing gave up, and the crowd’s excitement increased as they cheered on their chosen champion and jeered at the other two remaining contestants.
Yet there was no clear front runner. Only a few scraps of bird pepper remained in each bowl, and as Jake watched, each man scooped his share into his hand and conveyed it to his mouth.
Jake held his breath as they chewed. Caught up in the excitement, he’d lost sight of his hope that Captain Harraway would be one of the failures. Winning seemed more important than avoiding marriage.
“Finished,” shouted three voices. Jake thought his captain was a fraction ahead of the others, but the final decision would be over to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who had descended from her private rooms as the contest drew to a close.
“The winner is Captain Harraway,” the lady announced. “It was very close, gentlemen, and I congratulate you all.”
Coming down to earth with a jolt, Jake examined his master. The man was more than half cut, by Jake’s estimation. He still looked delighted with himself. How he would feel tomorrow, when he realized he had promised to marry a stranger, Jake could only speculate.
Carr Abbas, Ealing
The man who brought the message must have left London before dawn, because he arrived even before Miss Ellen was out of bed, and she was an early riser. Kat made sure the maid took it to her with her morning hot chocolate.
Miss Ellen scanned the letter and looked up at Kat. “Kat, your matchmaker writes she has found me a husband. I am to come to London tomorrow to meet him and decide whether he will suit. My goodness, Kat, what shall I wear?”
Any suitor meeting Miss Ellen in her usual garments would question whether she was even gentry and would certainly doubt her taste. Removing a lot of the flounces and frills had helped, but nothing could be done about the cut, the color, or the quality of the fabric.
Despite Kat’s earnest entreaties that her mistress spend money on new gowns, Miss Ellen had not done so.
She acknowledged that clothing sent a signal about status but pointed out that their resources were limited, and a gown of sufficient quality to attract a wealthy husband would stretch them to the limit.
“Besides,” Miss Ellen had said, “I do not want to be courted under false pretenses. Bad enough that I am pretending to be the owner of this manor, without prancing around in fine feathers I cannot afford.”
Tomorrow, that decision might cost them dearly.
Kat had insisted on Miss Ellen having the right to refuse the groom, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon had agreed, on condition that the groom had the same right.
If Miss Ellen made a poor first impression, she might be rejected before he realized what a sweet, kind lady he had won.
Perhaps Mrs. Dove-Lyon could help.
Miss Ellen was studying the letter with a frown. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon says she will send the carriage first thing in the morning so I arrive early, and that she will have someone do my hair. She offers to provide clothing if I have nothing suitable.”
Oh good! Well done, Mrs. Dove-Lyon .
“I shall not accept, of course,” said Miss Ellen. “You know how I feel about pretending to be someone I am not. The suitor will have to take me as he finds me.”
That wouldn’t do. Kat would need to come up with a plan to make it necessary for Miss Ellen to accept Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s help.
At least the footman who brought the message was waiting for the reply.
Kat had sent him to the kitchen, having asked one of the footmen to show him the way and see he was given food and drink.
Kat could send a message of her own back with Miss Ellen’s answer to the invitation.
Let her lady turn up to a meeting with a proper suitor looking drab and pockets-to-let? Not if Kat could help it.
Captain Harraway’s lodgings, London
Captain Harraway was as sick as a dog the day after the contest, and it was Waterford’s fault, for surely the captain’s reaction would not have been so bad had he consumed only his own portion and not part of Waterford’s?
Jake had been warned that the aftermath of eating so many bird peppers might be stomach pains, nausea, vomiting, and even the runs, and the captain had them all—so much so, that Jake called a physician.
The doctor just confirmed the diagnosis and prescribed lots of fluids. “Weak tea will be best, Captain Harraway. And no alcohol. With your humors so out of balance, your stomach will not be able to take it.”
Weak tea it was, then, though the captain grizzled, and by the early afternoon he was feeling better, and demanding food. “Something bland,” the doctor had counseled. Jake ordered poached eggs on toast, which the kitchen served with a warm posset of milk and ale, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg.
The captain muttered about steak. Still his gut must still have been tender, for he didn’t send Jake back to the kitchen with new orders but ate and drank what he had been given.
Not long after he had finished, a message arrived from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
“I am commanded to present myself at the Lyon’s Den at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” he told Jake. “It seems that my bride is coming from the country to look me over.” He grimaced. “I hope she is at least marginally attractive.”
“I hope she is good natured,” Jake retorted. “We are, after all, going to have to live with her.”
“If she likes the country,” the captain commented, “perhaps she will want to live in Ealing, at Carr Abbas, and we could visit.”
He paused, waiting for Jake to comment. Jake busied himself putting the crockery and cutlery from his master’s meal onto the tray, not making eye contact. If the lady was worth her salt, she’d not tolerate such an arrangement for a moment.
But then, if he knew the captain—and he did—the man wasn’t seriously suggesting it. If he’d made up his mind to marry, he would treat his wife well. The man didn’t have it in him to behave otherwise.
As if he had heard Jake’s thoughts, Captain Harraway sighed.
“I suppose if I become a married man, I shall have to behave like one,” he acknowledged.
“Perhaps both the lady and I should both move to Carr Abbas. Will that please you, Jake? Mind you, she might be rusticating against her will. Perhaps she dreams of Town life and will insist on us living in London. What will you say about that?”
Jake had thought of that and a dozen other nightmare scenarios. “I’ll say that is what you get for buying a pig in a poke, Captain, with all due respect.”
“Which is to say,” noted the captain, “I am due no respect at all.” He sighed again. “But you’ve been telling me I have to change, Jake, and now, whether it pleases the pair of us or not, change is upon us.”
He could say that again. Jake could only hope it wouldn’t turn out to be as bad as he feared. He would have to wait for tomorrow to find out.